


Fall From Grace

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst, Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing Sherlock over the Reichenbach Falls, John learns that life does, unfairly, continue to sweep you along, leaving you to either keep up, or flounder and drown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebound

It's been thirty-seven hours, fifteen minutes, four point nine, ten, eleven, twelve seconds--a lifetime--since he last slept. Bags under his eyes; dark, heavy; skin hanging loose and pale. Hands shaking; trembling; dropping things, losing things, losing track of time, losing it.

Reichenbach. Reichenbach Reichenbach Reichenbach.

Repeat the word over and over in his head; spread it over his tongue, and press it into the roof of his mouth. Sounds meaningless. Nonsense, jumbling out past his lips, caught between sobs and bitter curse words.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

After the news, he doesn't know what to do--doesn't know what he's supposed to do; how to react. He sits; puts his head between his knees, tries to breath. Deep, even, level breaths. But they come out too fast, too loud, too shallow; leave him unbalanced and sick, head spinning and dizzy, the world twisting and tilting on its axis; vertigo.

He paces. But it only serves to remind him of longer legs; of lighter feet hushing over the carpet. Of a velvet voice, too fast, such a know-it-all. Lovely, lovely.

Gone.  
\------------------

He sits. Stares into next Tuesday. Days pass--slog into months; years tick by.

Year one, he meets a girl. A lovely, smiling woman with a slight curl to her cocoa hair. Her name is Mary, and she doesn't look at him like he's broken, even when he is. Instead, she takes his hand; holds it gently, unassumingly, and leads him into life.

Year two they marry. Simple ceremony; small. Mary's family is gentle smiles; clasping hands that grip his shoulder firmly; welcome John Watson as one of their own, no questions asked. The only people John invites are his sister, and Greg Lestrade. No one else--there is no one else.

Harry casts him looks; glances askance at her brother, as if he might collapse to the floor; shatter to a hundred thousand million pieces, a suncatcher caught spinning on a lopsided axis.

Lestrade seems to understand; stays at John's side as best man, standing awkward in elegant dress clothes, knowing he doesn't quite fit the shoes of the man who would have been there in his stead, if not for the dreadful unfairness of life.

Year three brings sounds of bell-like laughter, and tiny fingers that fit perfectly around John's, trusting and vulnerable. A cherub face smiles innocently from a silver frame on the desk of his job as a dull, everyday Dean of Medicine.

He's fine. Happy. Not ecstatic, no, but the closest thing to, given the circumstances of his life. He hasn't thought much of Afghanistan in almost a year; the dreams of rattling gunfire and screaming bullets no longer riddle his head; no longer wake him in the dead of night, denying sleep.

He's not in once piece, not yet, but he's healing; always healing, getting a little closer to better everyday. There's still a part of him that gapes, an open wound across and through his chest, carving off part of a metaphorical heart.

John Watson sounds incomplete; will always sound wrong and empty and uneven, without the addition of 'Sherlock Holmes' stamped in front; held in place and anchored with a simple three-letter-word; and.

They buy a house, he and Mary. Small, quaint; set in the countryside, among a hill of brambles, and rambling heath. A big backyard; tall, sturdy trees for climbing, and a tire swing. Perfect to raise a family, as he fully intends to do.

It's time to leave it behind, that old life. The life of the man fresh from the fires of war; the man who couldn't function without the burn and rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The life of crime-solving, of brilliance; of a man who ran like mad, and hid burning intelligence under a head of unruly black curls.

Time to say goodbye to Baker Street; to the grinning skull over the fireplace, and the experiments strewn throughout the fridge (left untouched all these three years; undisturbed, but for a thickening coat of dust).

Goodbye to 221B.

To Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective the world had ever seen, and would now never see again.

Time to close the book, crack open a new spine, and start over anew, ink crisp and fresh.

Goodbye to the perfect team; so long and take care, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns from his faked death, and John is more than a little hurt to have been out of the loop. From Sherlock's point of view.

John.

It's John, sitting in an idling car ('91 Honda Accord; chipped paint; slight dent in left rear door; burns oil in excessive amounts; exhaust black, blue, smoke, clouds), forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

Stand in the headlights, head raised. Stare. Continue to do so. No result. Stare harder. Can't he feel it? Can't he feel his eyes, burning into him? Wait. Stare; eyes burning into his flesh. John. John, I'm here--look, look up, John, look.

John John John.

"John, John, John." Saying it now. Louder. Faster. Repeat, repeat. Hates repeating himself. Can't stop. Raise voice, step closer. "John, John--JOHN."

He's moving, now, inside the car. Jumps slightly, raising his head. He blinks, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, squints. Wipes a hand across the windshield, clearing faint fogging. Pauses. Stares back. Double take. More staring. His lips move; form a word, a name.

Sherlock.

"Sherlock." Familiar voice--but gruffer; older; strained. Stepping out of the car now, coming closer, head cocked, a hand raised. His hair is lighter, with flecks of grey, streaks of salt among the brown. Hand shaking; Sherlock reaches out, brushes fingertips. Broken fingernails; calluses on the ends of John's fingers. Soft, smooth but rough skin; warm. Warmer than his (has been wandering up the hillside for a good hour and a half, tracking Mycroft's directions to John's thinking space on the edge of the rise); sending familiar thrills up his hands. Grip John's palms in his; lift and press eager fingers to his face.

"Sherlock...?" Disbelief now. Hands moving over his face, gleaning evidence; finding solid, concrete proof.

It's me, John. Me, it's me, I'm here. Sorry, so sorry, never wanted to leave. Missed you--miss you still, even here. John, don't let me go, don't leave. Stay, John, stay, I'm sorry.

"You're dead." A whisper, and a sweaty palm cupping his cheek. John's hand is shaking; he's shaking, his entire frame trembling with emotions. Sherlock tilts his head, presses into that touch.

"No."

"Yes--you... they told me that you--the falls, and you--" Still his babbling; pressing his forehead to his.

"Never fell." Cut him off, silencing his mumbling rambles beneath his hand. "Had to pretend; convince everyone I was dead, so Mycroft and I could hunt down Moriarty's men in peace." He pauses, looking up, tilting his head to look into John's eyes. "He fell, though--Moriarty fell. Saw him. Watched him. Body hit the cliff, hit the rocks. Splash, into the water. Drowned. Probably died from first impact." He lifts a hand; holds the back of John's head; cradles it in his palm. "Won't have to worry about him anymore, John--he can't get to you now. Never again."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks, breaking into the moment--the apparently one-sided moment. "Why did you let me think..." He's shaking his head, voice breaking; trailing off.

"Had to, John." Sherlock says briskly; nods his head. "Had to pretend I was dead, as well; throw Moriarty's men off the trail. We hunted them all down, John, Mycroft and I. His entire organization, nothing more than jail sentences and ashes, now. It was so easy! With their ringleader down for the count, it was child's play to pick them off, one by one." His face is alight with a sort of extreme satisfaction; he's rubbing his hands together and biting his lips. His eyes drop to John, who is suddenly inching away with an expression akin to one who has been socked hard in the gut. "John?" He reaches out a hand; concern. John bats it away, the touch light and repulsed, and that hurts more than if he had actually used any form of force. "...John?"

"I can't believe--why didn't you tell me?" John demands; he's shaking. Shaking hard, violently, and Sherlock's frozen; confused and at a loss.

"John, I--"

"Don't give me excuses, Sherlock. I waited for you. I thought you..." John looks away, brow furrowed, confused anger criss-crossing his face. "I thought you died, Sherlock. And you let me believe that. I don't... I don't understand."

Sherlock's eyes sharpen, understanding setting in. "John, I had to; there was no one that could be trusted with the information. I had to lie-low, had to forego everyday life, and stay hidden. There was no one we could tell, no one who we could be certain of our trust. We--"

John cuts him off, words sharp; brittle and broken.

"There was me."

Sherlock goes still, eyes dropping to the ground at once.

Right. Of course. How could he have--

Jarred out of his thoughts by John's trembling voice: "There was me, Sherlock--you could have trusted me, Sherlock. I thought--I thought you did. I guess I... I guess I was bloody well wrong."

Sherlock steps forward; takes John's hand, and presses it to his face.

"Of course, John; of course I trusted you--I do trust you. I just--" He falls silent; John's fingers splay over his face, thumb tracing over prominent cheek bones. The tips of his fingers drift across Sherlock's lips, tracing slowly, and Sherlock lets his mouth fall open; breathes out lightly into John's touch. The ex-military man's face is focused; brows furrowed with an intent gaze; cataloguing.

Sherlock lets his eyes close; opens his mouth a bit more. Tongue flicking out; taste John's skin, tasting John, sunlight and soap and pain and depression, and--

John's fist connects with his face at an angle; glances across a cheekbone, and sends him reeling, stars flashing and dancing in his wide open eyes. He sprawls (quite undignified) on his backside, blinking rapidly, his mouth opening and closing; gaping like a fish. He shuts it; looks up at John with confusion and shock; presses a palm to his throbbing cheek, a question in his eyes.

"Three years, Sherlock!" John yells down at him; looms over the disgraced detective. "Three fucking years." His voice is loud; too loud. It echoes and ricochets inside Sherlock's aching head. "Three years, I thought you were dead--three years I wished I was dead. And you let me believe it, Sherlock. You let me think--you fed me a lie, and I swallowed it right down, didn't I? Always the follower; always letting you tug me along, string me along." He falls silent; shaking, vibrating with anger, with hurt; betrayal. His hands clench at his sides, and he looks like he would like nothing more than to treat the detective to another right hook.

Sherlock cringes; wants to put an arm over his face, and doesn't. Whatever John might do, he deserves it. Bloody well deserves it, and he won't deny the army doctor his anger.

He hadn't realized how affected John would be by his alleged death; had never dreamed that the military man's loyalty went as deep as this. He closes his eyes; waits for the blows that don't come.

Instead, it's a hand on his, pulling him to his feet with rough force; brushing him off, and straightening his rumpled suit. He opens his eyes; stares at John in wonder. Sherlock lifts a hand; reaches for the smaller man, but John shoves it away; shakes his head.

"Don't." He steps back; jams his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans. "Just--just don't, alright?" He turns his head away; angles his body around, and walks back to the idling Honda. Sherlock hesitates; follows slowly, uncertain, watching John slide into the driver's seat. He waits for him to throw the car into drive; speed off, leave Sherlock's life in a cloud of oil slick-blue smoke. But he doesn't. Instead, he shuts off the engine; settles back in the black leather seat, and stares at his hands.

Sherlock inches closer; tests the passenger side door handle; finds it unlocked, and pulls it open, slipping into the passenger seat. He tilts his head; stares at John, waiting for the yelling, for the 'get the hell out of here, Sherlock', for the 'I hate you', for anything, any words at all.

John says nothing; sits and stares at the space illuminated in the headlights, mirroring the position Sherlock found him in.

He closes the door, and looks at his hands.


	3. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't enjoy the feeling of being left behind.

"Will you come back?"

The question breaks the silence; shatters the empty air like sugar-glass; takes John's simmering thoughts with it. He tilts his head, and looks at the man beside him, folding long limbs into cracked leather seats; a work of art set on a garbage backdrop. John stares; glimmering eyes meet his, track every thought before it even crosses his face. He looks away; severs the connection. Hands on the back of his head, trying to turn him back around.

Still needs to know everything.

Same Sherlock.

Nothing's changed.

He pushes the hands away; let him guess, for once. Let him be the one lost and wondering; blind. See how he likes it.

"Don't. Stop that--what are you talking about, 'will I come back'? I'm not the one who left--the one who pretended to die." Pointed look, before he aims his gaze out the window, ignores the eyes boring holes in the side of his head.

"Will you come back to--to the flat. Will you come back." Sherlock hesitates, breaking the sentence structure; unlike him. John shoots him a look, tries to tell himself he doesn't care, and can't quite manage. He denies himself the urge to laugh at himself; he's gotten terrifyingly skilled at holding conversations with himself over the past three years; arguments and self-spats. Practice makes perfect, and he bites hard on his tongue; turns his face back towards the side window.

"Mycroft sold the flat--told him to in year," Swallow, clear throat. Memories; fickle things. "--year two. Didn't see the point. Accepted that... that you weren't coming back by that point." See Sherlock's hand rise; shift towards his own, shaking on the shift. He draws it away; tucks it beneath his leg, and the reaching-out man in the corner of his eye retracts; is clasped with the other, and settled in Sherlock's lap. "Sorry." He adds, and he's not certain if it's for the rebuff, or for selling their flatshare.

"I know; doesn't make a difference." Sherlock replies; startles John, who turns his head towards him; frowns. The detective's lips twist slightly, a bare hint of a bitter smile tilting the corners of his mouth. "Mycroft sold it, you said." A slight smirk. "Of course he didn't--I wouldn't let him." John's frown deepens; traces creases across his forehead, and around his mouth.

"But, there's a man living there, now. I saw him; he moved in when I went there to help Mycroft pack up your..." He pauses; falls silent, the lightbulb going off. "Oh." Sherlock's nodding; studying his hands.

"Yes, the man is one of Mycroft's many assistants. And my things are already back in place--with room for yours, of course. As always." He turns his head, and the man-returned-from-death is watching him intently; stripping away his skin, layer by layer in his mind. John shivers; directs his gaze away once more, breaking the connection. Sherlock sighs softly; fidgets, and parts his lips.

"John--I understand that you're upset with me," he begins; is cut off by a harsh, bitter bark of laughter from his former flatmate; he turns his head, eyes wide and strangely vulnerable. It's that look, something so alien and unfamiliar on Sherlock's face, that shuts him up almost instantly.

"Upset? Upset, Sherlock? Really? I know you're not one to waste words, but that doesn't even begin to cover it."

Sherlock's staring at him; he can feel it, even as he scrapes at a bit of dirt caught under the half-moon crescent of a broken thumb nail.

"Then what is the right word?" Sherlock asks softly; shifts in his seat until his shoulders and knees are aimed towards him.

Broken. Shattered. Abandoned. Any of those, try those, Sherlock, and even they won't fit perfectly. Do you have any idea what you've done to me? You were always changing me, bettering me, pushing me past barriers, limits, and social norms. You pushed me up, higher, dragged me up above reality, then let me fall. Without even a warning, or someone to catch me--didn't even offer a hand to pick me back up afterwards.

He tilts his head; looks fleetingly at Sherlock, at the spark of hope and mild confusion in the detective's eyes, then shakes his head.

No; you have no idea at all.

"Will you?" Comes the soft question; John's head jerks back up.

"What?" He snaps; frowns, his voice coming out harsher than he means, and he winces slightly at Sherlock's flinch. But he doesn't apologize. No--he's not the one at fault here.

"Come back, John--will you come back, with me. To the flat." A pause. "Please." Another pause, slightly longer. "John."

He sighs; lifts a hand, and smooths it over his face, fingers ruffling across his thinning hair.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry--I can't. I just--" He's cut off as Sherlock sits up straight; rigid spine and grabbing hands that grasp his arm too tight; fingers digging into tendons with desperation.

"John--John, I'm sorry. I really am. Truly. I'm sorry. I should have trusted you, I do, I have no excuse. Please accept." John turns his head; is met with a gaze that burns bright; threatens to set him ablaze at the slightest hint of contact. "Please come back to the flat; we're a team. I can't work without you."

"You did just fine before--"

Cut off with a slashing hand, cutting angrily through the air. "No. That was before. And it was different; a lower quality of existing. Can't go back to that--won't. I need you, John; I'd be lost without my blogger."

John pulls away, shock tingling at the tips of his fingers. He shrugs his shoulders; brushes off Sherlock's touch.

"It's not that, Sherlock." He pauses, then frowns; nods to himself. "Well, it is, but not just that." He sighs, and moves his lips to go on, but Sherlock's grabbed his shoulder now, a tight, tense iron grip.

"Then what is it, John? What do I have to do to make you come back; to forgive me?" Fingers tightening; pressing into flesh. John hisses; sucks breath through his teeth as the pressure pushes into an old, nerve-severing scar.

"I said that's not it, Sherlock--" he tries again; hands grabbing both shoulders now, and turning him in the seat, eyes stealing his gaze.

"Tell me." A demand. Sudden irritation roils into John's lungs; burns like acid in his veins, deepening and darkening into something worse, that he can't put a name to yet.

"I got married."

Shock, scrolling across the detective's face. Managed to startle him; a first for everything.

Goes on; can't stop. Spite. That's what it is; that's this dark, creeping feeling, hooking claws into his veins.

"Her name's Mary; I met her in... in the first year." He clears his throat; shrugs off Sherlock once more. He lets go easily, fingers loose and relaxed with disbelief. "We've got a kid, too; his name's..." A sideways glance. "Locklan. I wanted to name him after... well, it's close enough, but not the same, you know? Didn't want it to be the same. Not after..." his eyes slip away; stare out the windshield. It's started raining, and he never even noticed. He goes on, words tripping out. Less spite now; the hurt confusion in Sherlock's eyes has wiped that away almost entirely. Now it's like a burst dam, and he can't find the cracks in time to patch up the leak before it spills out as a flood.

"Got a house; small, out in the countryside. Nice big backyard, perfect for raising a kid, you know? He's just barely walking, smart little thing, very determined, but I think he'll like it, all that space. He's going to be a runner, I know it, just like you. Which is funny, seeing as there's no relation, not really. Always thought you'd be the Godfather, when I had a kid one day, if I had a kid. Guess I did, guess you could be, yeah, now that... now that you're..." He lets himself fall silent; finds himself rambling, and shuts his mouth over the words; swallows them like bad medicine.

Sherlock's silent. He faces the windshield, and his hands are twisted tight in his lap; knotted and trembling. John frowns; touches his shoulder lightly, and finds himself shrugged gently off.

"I didn't know you were coming back," he murmurs; both an apology, and an explanation. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock, and I had to move on. If I didn't..." he pauses; remembers the time in the alley. The prick of a needle; shattering glass, and a chemical rush boiling his veins; lighting up his brain with neuron flashbulbs, and synaptic fireworks. He shakes his head, comes back to the present. "Whatever we might have had before--or whatever might have happened if--if you'd stayed..." He sighs, and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm sorry, but I've got a new life now. I'm--"

"Don't say it." Sherlock cuts him off. "Don't say you're happy. Don't you dare; not to me. Not when I can look at you, and see it." He raises his head, a sort of desperate resignation playing through his irises. "You're not whole, John. It's like when I first met you, fresh out of Afghanistan, and broken; shattered. Hide it from everyone else all you like, but don't you dare try that with me."

He grabs the door handle; holds it like a lifeline, and pushes open the door.

"Good evening, John. Sleep well."

The door shuts, and Sherlock's tall form melts into the building storm; slides sideways into the rain, and disappears.


	4. Redundant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds himself feeling lost without his blogger. From Sherlock's point of view.

Cold.

It's cold.

The rain hits him at a slant; shatters against his skin--runs down, and shivers away from his body in a hazing aura. He bows against the wind; leans into the growing force, and snags his hands deep in the pockets of his long coat, shivering under the torrent.

'I got married.'

Married. John. Married. To a woman, a woman named Mary. John, with someone else.

John, with someone who isn't him.

Wrong. Wrong, it's wrong, stop it, John, stop that, you're doing it completely wrong: how can you just push me aside?

He's angry; it shocks him, the realization, but he finds it true.

Hurt. That, too.

He shrugs deeper into his coat, yanks up the collar, and slogs on. He tilts his head as his feet hit the cobblestones of London streets, and his eyes catch the brief swivel of a security camera. A tug at the corner of his mouth, a humourless twisting up his lips, is his only acknowledgement of the occurrence.

It's barely five minutes later that a long, dark car slides up behind him, wheels glimmering like oil slicks in the downpour. The passenger side window starts to roll down; Sherlock flicks his hand out; shakes his head, and the vehicle moves on.

He'll walk. He'll shiver, freeze, and figuratively drown, because he deserves it.

When he climbs the few steps to 221B; pushes open the door and steps inside, he leaves shallow puddles across the entry; hangs his sodden coat on the banister, and leaves it to drip. He's certain that he'll catch an earful from Mrs. Hudson for this--but, perhaps, having just returned from the dead, she'll go easy on him. He barks a laugh, startles himself, and shoves open the door; steps inside the flat.

Not their flat; the flat.

Just his, now.

"Dull." He mutters under his breath; sweeps inside and halts; someone is sitting in John's armchair. For a second, he lets himself hope; lets himself pretend. Even despite the fact that there's no chugging Honda parked outside the flat; no familiar sense of being finally completed once more; the height is all wrong.

He lets himself pretend; almost walks around the chair and lets himself collapse into the fantasy. But he skirts the armrest; lets reality filter through, and aims a sigh towards his brother, dropping into a sprawl across the couch.

"Mycroft." He turns his head; narrows his eyes.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs; leans forward and slaps a file folder down on the table. "Got a case for you--at least try and pretend to look a little more grateful."

Sherlock turns away; rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "No--not doing it."

"Really, Sherlock--you can be so very dramatic sometimes. All I need you to do--"

"No." He repeats himself; hates that. Makes it louder this time. "No. No more. I'm not doing anymore cases."

A pause; Mycroft leans forward. "Listen, Sherlock; you worked just fine by yourself before John." He begins; Sherlock's head snaps up, his eyes narrowed, clearly saying 'don't'; Mycroft continues despite it. "And, while I realize you functioned much better with him, you can certainly continue without too much of a--"

"No." Third time. It makes his teeth stand on edge. Can't he see? Before John, he was just Sherlock. Now, in the aftermath of John Watson, he's just Sherlock once more, but it's not the same.

Not the same by half.

"Sherlock, John will come back; he can't stay away." Mycroft reasons; folds his hands together and looks down at his little brother like he is an errant child. "He's just as addicted to danger; the thrill of the chase, as you yourself are."

Sherlock tilts up his head; looks at Mycroft with a sort of dull annoyance.

"No, Mycroft. Not this time." Looks away; glowers at the wall fixtures. "John has a family now."

"I know."

His head jerks up; he stares at his brother. Mycroft looks back calmly; seems unperturbed.

"That won't stop him." He holds out his hand; offers the folder again. "And, in the meantime, something to keep you preoccupied." He waves it slightly; ruffles the photos and sheets inside.

Sherlock is silent; regards him with an empty expression. He lifts his arm; curls his fingers around the edge of the file, and takes it. He flips it open; looks inside, then back up to Mycroft, matching his smile.

"I said 'no'."

He lifts the folder above his head; stands, and walks to the window. Sliding it open one-handed, he holds the case file like a disk, and skips it out into the torrential rain.

When he turns back, Mycroft is scowling; his mouth works in a way that suggests he's struggling to keep his patience.

"Sherlock, those are--" A glance outside, at the downpour, and a muscle jumps in his jaw, before he continues. "--were extremely important government documents. You cannot just--"

"Don't care." Sherlock cuts him short; drops himself back onto the couch, and wraps himself in a sense of disruption.

"Sherlock, you--"

"Don't care."

"Sherlock, stop--"

"Don't care."

Silence. Footsteps.

When Sherlock turns, Mycroft is gone, and the flat is empty, the only sound the rain reaching in through the window, and pattering against the floor.

Sherlock stands; walks back to the window, and puts a hand on the pane. His fingers curl, but he doesn't close it.

He stands in place; lets the rain hit against his chest and stomach, and closes his eyes against the glass.

John.


	5. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself caught up in what might have been.

John drives home slowly; lets the rain slide against the window, and squints through the deluge. He pulls into the driveway; leaves the elderly Honda in the garage beside Mary's silver Buick Lacrosse, and walks into his house--his home. He hangs his keys on a hook; slips out of his jacket, and trudges upstairs. Pause; check the small room behind the first door; a sleeping Locklan, snoring softly. He stands beside the crib; looks down at his offspring. He has Mary's hair and eyes; he has his father's face.

He smiles; straighten's the stuffed animals around his son's curled form, and props the door open on his way back to the hall.

Next room; his room; their room.

Mary's asleep; the bedside lamps flicker and blind him: she waited up for him. The way she lies curled diagonally across the comforter makes this clear; clarifies. A deduction.

His chest constricts; sudden pain.

John sighs; sits on the edge of the bed, and starts pulling off his socks. Mary stirs; mumbles and blinks, and he guides her to her side of the bed; helps her under the duvet. She is asleep almost in the same instant that her head touches the pillow. John sits in silence; listens to the soft, sighing sound of his wife's breathing. In, out, slow, deep; repeat.

He finds himself matching the rhythm in his own inhales and exhales; feels the mimicry slow his heart and dull his mind. He sighs; sheds his clothing down to his shorts, and climbs into bed beside his wife. He turns; looks at her face, and sees another.

Sharp cheekbones; a proud, aquiline nose, and a mouth with the corners turned down in a faint frown; the twitch of a smirk. Black-brown curls spilling across the pillowcase, replacing the cocoa brown strands. White skin, grey eyes, long fingers and arms and legs, intertwined with his.

Could have been that. Could maybe have had that.

John sucks in a breath; lets it out, and hears the shaky, wavering note it carries. He closes his eyes, grinds his cheek against the pillow, and opens them once more. No one. Just Mary. He sighs again, smiles, and rolls onto his back. His fingers drift along Mary's shoulder; brush her hair, and she turns; rolls into him, and he lets his arm curl around her shoulders instinctively.

Feels like it might fit. Feels okay.

He doesn't mind settling.

John Watson turns onto his side; fits his face against his wife's neck, and falls asleep.


	6. Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to cope with being a team of one once more

Three days.

It's been three days since he last saw John Watson. And it's driving him mad.

He wanders the flat; paces and trips over stacks of books, solved case files, and half-filled mugs that once held tea; now hold things resembling one of his experiments, more than the drink it once was.

Sherlock sits on the floor; shirt undone, creased and rumpled; hanging off his shoulders. He fidgets; scratches at the back of his neck, and stares at his feet, long legs folded beneath him. Scraping his knuckles against the floor boards, he turns his head; studies the mess of papers and sheet music: his nest of chaos. His phone lays nearby, next to the Browning L9A1; vibrates and twitches. He reaches for it; stretches past, and grabs the violin lying just beyond.

John.

Sherock stands; kneels and digs the bow out from under a pile of clothes. Fitting the instrument between chin and shoulder, shirt still hanging from the crooks of his arms, fluttering against his back, he paces; halts against the window ledge, and turns. He faces John's chair (still thinks of it that way; John's chair. Not the chair. John's chair); closes his eyes and focuses. Forces his over-active imagination into overdrive, and pushes a memory into the slight indent in the cushion.

Brown-blonde hair; short; greying. A stern face; kind, yet hard. Compact soldier. Calm eyes; bright, expressive eyes, eyes that burned with constant emotion.

Emotion. Something that made him tire of others; keeps him fascinated in John.

Curious.

Sherlock places the bow against wire strings; draws out a long, lingering note; breathes life into the fantasy.

John. John, I miss you

John, sitting in the chair, a hand on each arm rest, and feet planted solidly on the floor. His face relaxed; laugh lines scribbled at the edges of his mouth. A smile? Yes, but slight, very slight. Eyes closed; perhaps his fingers would move with the melody, even slow and mournful as it is.

Sherlock pictures it; picture perfect John in his eyes. Every inch of skin mapped out from glimpses; John changing shirts, John walking from bathroom to bedroom, John washing dishes with his sleeves pushed up.

Every expression; flicker of the eyes; quirk of mouth.

Mapped. Memorized.

Meretricious.

He rests his bare shoulders against the window pane, the chill radiating through the tense muscles of his back, and plays; coaxes slow, maudlin notes from the polished wood and straining strings.

Come back, John.

He waits; he wishes, he imagines, and he waits.

He can't stay away forever, surely. Sherlock knows he wouldn't be able to, were the tables turned. But perhaps he's over-estimated John. Perhaps he is a bit too mad for love.

A bit too mad for friends.

John, I'm sorry.

He strokes the bow hard down the strings; lifts his arm with a flourish, and throws the long, thin implement across the room. Listens as it lands somewhere behind the couch. He sighs; lets the violin fall the short distance to the floor, before following, his long legs crumpling into bends and angles beneath him.

Please, John.

His phone jitter-bugs across the floor again; brushes his toes. He grabs it; snatches it up. Five texts, and now it's making a harsh jingle sound; ringtone. He flips it open; parts his lips, and it's out before he can help it.

"John."

Silence; silence at the end of the line. A throat being cleared; discomfort.

"Ah, no... it's Lestrade, actually..."

Right. Lestrade. Of course.

"What is it."

Doesn't ask. Doesn't care. Not particularly. No, not at all, after reflection. It's not John.

And that is bothersome; truly bothersome.

Stupid John.

"I've got a case for y--" Lestrade's voice is cut short as Sherlock snaps the phone shut.

"I said I was done." He mutters; tosses it away to join the bow in its hiding place behind the sofa. "Leave me alone." Wrapping his arms around his legs, he lets himself tumble sideways; pillows his head on a stack of journals and sheet music.

His eyes find the gun on the floor; his fingers scrabble against the grip, and drags it closer. He curls his fingers around the barrel; safety's still on. Sherlock pulls it near; fits it beneath his chin, and stares into the darkening flat with half-open eyes.

Stupid John. Leaving him alone. Getting married and having offspring. Leaving him to lie on the floor, curled up with a gun.

I was going to tell you, John.

Was he really so unforgiveable? Or is it un-likeable? Unlovable? All three?

I'm fond of you, John; terribly, horribly fond.

Words. So many words; always so many. So hard to say. Should have said, would have said, and could have said, pretty much impossible. Sherlock rubs his cheek against the chamber of the gun; scratches an itch arching across his jawline.

You knew that, right? Right, John? You knew I cared... of course you did.

Everything is so... dull. So dreadfully dull, he can't stand it. And the gun's scraping against his temple now, and there's an itch in his arms; in his fingers and mouth, crawling deep beneath his skin.

Didn't you?

His chest hurts. Discomfort. He rubs a palm over it; pushes his shirt off entirely, and shoves it under his knees, irritated. The brush of fabric against his skin is distracting; the cold wood flooring feels much better. He squirms a bit; fiddles with the hem of his dress pants, but can't quite work up the energy to get them off. He sighs; falls still, and strokes his pinky finger slowly along the trigger of the Browning.

John.


	7. Reaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a bit of an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, usually I alternate chapters, and, if I'd followed the pattern, this would have been from John's POV. But he really didn't have anything interesting to be written about yet, so I cheated, and you get another Sherlock chapter. I know, I know, how terrible.

Pain. There's pain. And blood. That, too.

Quite a lot.

Sherlock sits up; blinks blurs from his eyes, and starts as the gun slips off his chest; clatters against the floor. He weaves; puts his hand down, palm-first, and winces. Pain. More pain. Jesus, that stings; that aches and tears, and feels a bit not good. He lifts his hand, turns it over and stares.

He's shot himself. In the hand. Not directly; the bullet is embedded in the floor beside his head. Small wonder he didn't wake at the report, or the backlash. Now that he thinks about it, his face feels bruised, and he drifts his bleeding hand over the ache along one cheekbone. Recoil, like a punch in the face. He looks back to his hand, at the powder burns scraping across his fingers.

That attests for the blood; trickling and leaking from the graze, painting candy-red stripes down his wrist. Sherlock sighs; gets to his feet and wanders to the kitchen. Unravelling an entire roll of paper towel, letting it hit the floor and watching as it drapes its way into the living room, he rips off a handful of squares; wads them up and wraps them around his hand. Red soaks through, and he pulls a face; will most likely have to go to surgery. Can't be helped.

Stomping upstairs, he awkwardly and one-handedly pulls on a new shirt, scowling in frustration. If John were here, he wouldn't have to struggle. Wouldn't even have to go to the hospital, because his own personal doctor/blogger/soldier could have patched him up.

If John were here, he probably wouldn't have shot himself in the hand to begin with.

"Stupid John," he mutters; manages three buttons, then gives up, and shrugs slowly into his coat. The makeshift paper-towel bandage is soaked through now; dripping onto his feet. He scowls; snatches the spilled roll of paper towel off the floor, and lines his pocket with it, shoving his hand in after. He stuffs his blood-dripped feet into his shoes, and leaves the flat; waves down a cab with his good hand. Giving the cabby the address for the nearest hospital, he glares out the window, and bites his lips.

Stupid John indeed.

The cab ride to the surgery is long and dull, and they spend far too much time trapped in the constrict of traffic. His hand bleeds; soaks through the lining of his jacket, and his cheek aches, and he's everything but entertained. When the cab pulls into the parking lot, Sherlock flicks a handful of bills at the cabby; ignores the man's protests against the blood spotting his seats, and walks to the front doors.

No, not walks. Stumbles; wavers and has to lean his shoulder against a pillar. Losing blood; a tiresome process. He rights himself; guides his quivering body into the hospice, using his bloody hand for balance, and leaving red smears against everything he touches, much to his vague, far-off glee.

"Sir?"

A voice pulls him back, halts him in place, and he swings about, nearly collapsing at the feet of a small, stocky nurse. Tight bun, tense face, obviously very-- the deduction spirals off course as he pauses to press his shoulder against the wall; blinks rapidly, and raises his hands.

Florescent lights. Suddenly much too bright. He covers his eyes; squints against the headache that seems determined to set up permanent camp behind his pupils.

"Oh, jesus-- can I get a hand out here?" The nurse's voice again, calling out in a sharp panic. Sherlock scowls; feels his injured hand dripping red onto his face. Shouldn't nurses be much calmer? This is what they were trained for, was it not? Well, not perhaps for sociopaths who've shot themselves in the hand, but for blood and weakness, and the world slipping away much too slow?

Hands are grabbing at him, now; too many hands, too hard; pushing and propelling him towards doorways and hospital beds. He protests; pushes back, and waves his hands; flicks and drips red on everything in sight. He makes a scene; mumbles feebly.

"Stitches," he manages; brushes away the constricting arms, the groping, grabbing fingers. "Just need... some stitches."

There's shouting, and more pushing, and it's entirely too much; entirely exhausting, and he's never liked being touched anyways, and certainly not by so many bloody hands.

Hand. His hand. Only his hand is bloody, but it's starting to get muddled; starting to blend and merge and confuse, because there's red on everything now; staining the walls and floor, and floundering faces, and nothing makes sense. His head is swimming, and things are darker at the edges; a disturbing mix of grey, and bright, bright florescent lights.

The world is bleeding, he is bleeding, everyone is bleeding, from eyes and mouths and everywhere, and he wants it to stop. And the sounds.

He puts his hands over his ears; shuts his eyes and tries to drown it all; drown it out; suffocate the noise.

A door opens; a voice rises above the others, lower; deeper. Not the shrill, panicked tone of the nurses, or the night attendants, or the other doctors who have come to assist in the commotion.

It's steady; gentle, stern, and it's everything.

It's familiar; striking; a slap, and Sherlock snaps his eyes open; brushes away the onlookers.

The world narrows; bends and buckles, and fixes on a single point.

Short hair, more grey than brown; creased face, more kind than hard; steady hands: doctor's hands, soldier's hands.

"What's going on?"

Blatant confusion.

"There's blood everywhere; what's going on?"

His brain figures it out first; sputters, and spits it up; drops a name in the front of his mind; sets it throbbing against the back of his eyes. Lingering at the back of his throat like a taste.

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn.

Saying it, now. Voice sounds harsh; raspy and loose and grated raw.

"John. John." He lifts his arms; more blood, this time across his shirt, jacket hanging open. He smiles; offers his hand--the one covered in gore and candy-apple red. "John."

"Doctor Watson?"

One of the other doctors. He's staring; frowning at the ex-solider. John's standing, still; staring as well, but not at the speaker. His eyes are on Sherlock. No, not quite. Well, yes, in a sense: they're fixed on the outstretched hand; on the bloodied, torn up palm being offered like something sweet and coveted.

"Doctor Watson, do you know this man?"

John clears his throat; swallows, and keeps his eyes on Sherlock's offering.

"Ah--yes; he's a..." Terrible pause, long pause; Sherlock's chest tightens; constricts and collapses. Blood slicks the spaces between his fingers. John breathes out; finishes the sentence: "...a friend. Old friend."

Sherlock smiles. Smiles slow and big and ecstatic, and it lights up his face; smooths out his eyes.

Friend.

The edges of things are darkening again; spreading like burnt paper corners, and the ground looks suddenly closer. That's not right; the floor isn't supposed to shift towards you; you were supposed to fall to it. Everything is entirely backwards, and it's frustrating, but not terribly important, because John is here. John will take care of it, John will fix it, because that's what John does.

John Watson, the doctor; the solider; the Sherlock fixer-upper.

Friend.


	8. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's starting to figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Kat (http://sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com/)

There's a commotion in the hall, and, when John goes to find out what exactly is the problem, he's not entirely shocked by the sight that meets him.

Because of course it's Sherlock. Because it's always Sherlock; could never possibly be anyone but, at least not in John Watson's case.

Even when the man was dead to him for three bloody years, it was still Sherlock, and he's almost one hundred percent sure that this is the set way of things; forever and always, amen.

And when Sherlock holds out his bloody hand, and it looks like he's taken a bloody fishing hook to it, well, that makes sense, too. Even when the detective smiles; says his name, and crumples at his feet, it's nothing new. Because it seems like he's always picking Sherlock back up; scraping him off the floor, dusting him off, and fixing up the broken bits. Not entirely; not enough to fix him completely. But enough; just enough to keep the clockwork prince running; moving forward, ticking, ticking.

John shakes himself; snaps the world back into place, and comes into the present. He waves the attending away; bends and fits his hands in the crooks of Sherlock's arms, and pulls him to his feet. The detective weaves, somewhere between awake and not. His head rolls, he's leaning heavily on John, and he's dreadfully light.

"I've got him," he murmurs; directs the nurses away; sends the doctors back to their posts. "Thanks, but he doesn't like being touched."

"But you're touching him," a voice points out; a true enough observation.

"There's an exception in all cases," John replies; hears Sherlock in the words, and clamps his mouth shut; half-drags the limp doll that has replaced the man he once shared a flat with, towards an empty room; shuts the door, and dips the detective onto the bed. He leans against the wall, blends; stays silent and still; watches.

Sherlock's turning his head; rolling it from side to side, and rubbing his cheeks against the pillow. His bloody hand rises; grips the railings of the bed, and leaves rusty smears on the metal; across the white sheets. He looks disjointed; distracted; utterly shattered: eyes blank, mouth loose, and bleeding, bleeding.

John digs up bandages; collects supplies, before he takes Sherlock's mutilated hand and starts sponging away crusty red; watches the half-dried flakes dissolve into a thin parody of bloodshed in the wash basin. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face; drops his gaze to the hand, and studies the wound. It turns out to be, of all things, a bullet wound. Quite severe; almost passing entirely through the detective's hand, the palm blackened and shiny and shrivelled from powder burns.

He sighs; chokes, and strokes the tips of his fingers slowly over Sherlock's wrist, looking at him desperately. He looks entirely too small in the blood-stained bed for a man of his height and size; his chest appears curved and caved in and broken in two, at least to John's eyes, but he can't look past it; can't stop seeing it.

He closes his eyes, breathes, and bends back over the wound.

His mind flashes back to the previous day; a visit from Mycroft, that had been the flavour of the hour. He'd delivered a message, of sorts, straight through John's ears, and stuck it right solid in the middle of his chest.

"You have to go back. I'm not asking you to move in with him, but you need to go see him; make him a part of your life again."

"He's stopped working. He won't take cases. Not just from me; he's ignoring Detective-Inspector Lestrade's texts."

"John, you're the only person he wants. The only one he'll open the door to. I don't entirely understand his reasoning behind it, but he's decided that he can't function without you."

John sighs; scrapes a hand across his face, and his palm rasps against a slight dusting of stubble. From the corner of his eyes, he catches movement; Sherlock's eyelashes fluttering; grey irises peeking through. He blinks; runs his tongue over dry, cracked lips, and stares through heavy lids.

"John," he rasps; clears his throat, and tries to curl his fingers through the doctor's, fresh blood bubbling from the wound in Sherlock's hand at the movement. "John."

"Yeah." He replies, because there's really nothing more to say. He touches his fingers gently to Sherlock's wrist, over the pulse, and the detective stops his struggles to grab John; relaxes, and watches closely as the man he once shared a flat with begins sponging away the fresh blood. As Sherlock watches him, John watches back; takes careful stock of the other man's condition.

Aside from the ragged hole in his palm, Sherlock's not in what one would term 'good health'. He's thin; thinner than usual, too thin. His lips are more than chapped; they're cracked and split and bleeding, and his tongue looks swollen; too big for his mouth. Dehydration. His face is chalk-white, most likely from blood loss, but also due to other factors. Grey eyes study him, oddly dulled, the silver tarnished and smeared, instead of clear; sharpened.

"God, Sherlock," John mutters; presses the sponge a bit harder than he means to, and catches Sherlock's wince from the corner of his eyes. "Can't you take better care of yourself? You're a full grown man, for Christ's sake."

"No."

John's head snaps up; he stares, pausing, sponge held just over Sherlock's hand. Water oozes into his palm; mixes with the blood, and runs down Sherlock's wrist. John watches the slow, red progress; labels and names each bone beneath the skin the trail touches: first the lunate, the centre-most bone, pooling in the cleft just beneath the heel of the hand, then slanting sideways; dripping along the radius; striping down Sherlock's forearm. Ulna, his brain supplies, distant; stained with a smell of antiseptic and disinfectant that brings him back to the present.

"What do you mean, no?" John demands; sits back, and scowls. He tries to pull back his hand; Sherlock fumbles, grabs, and holds on; smears his blood against John's lifelines. He frowns; meets the detective's eyes. Sherlock looks back; opens his mouth, then shakes his head, and drops John's hand. John takes a moment; breathes slowly, and collects himself, before wiping the mess away from Sherlock's arm.

"God, you're an idiot."


	9. Reorder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really should just shut his mouth sometimes

_"God, you're an idiot."_

The words rankle; crawl under his skin and shift against his bones like tiny claws. Sherlock lifts his chin and the usual barriers come up, because that _hurts_ , and it's _John_ , and he obviously means it this time.

"Hardly, John," he hears himself say, voice clipped; cold and impersonal. "It was purely intentional." He wiggles his fingers, watching blood rise from the edges of the hole in his hand; run down his wrist again. This time, John doesn't move forward to wipe it away. The doctor sits in the chair, hands folded in his lap, and looks at Sherlock.

"Oh, really?" Disbelief and skepticism colours John's voice; the accompanying eye roll makes it quite clear that he isn't buying it. "Not an accident, then." It's not a question.

Sherlock squares his shoulders; sits up straighter, even though it makes his head pound, and all he wants is to curl up in John's lap, crawl inside John and listen to his heart; fall asleep.

"Of course not. I am hardly a bumbling imbecile, John. I know how to handle guns. Obviously I would not be so unintelligent as to shoot myself in the hand."

John fixes him with a look.

"So intentional, then." When Sherlock says nothing, the doctor stares him down. "You shot yourself intentionally in the hand, straight _through_ your hand, because... what? You were _bored_?" There's a snort in John's words, and that hurts as well; twists inside Sherlock's chest and makes him think of ugly things like rotting flesh; dying roses. "The wall not good enough this time?"

His words are almost joking, and that's the worse. It's a sick parody of what they had, that easy camaraderie; the jokes and laughter and careful smiles.

John's twisting that; ruining it, turning it to something black and bastardized.

"It was an _experiment_ , John," Sherlock hears himself spit, but inside he's collapsing; inside, he's caving in on himself.

Because it's different. They won't be the same. He's not a poetic man, but this feels wrong and broken, and like he's lost his only friend.

Which, if he was better versed in these kinds of things, he would realize that's exactly what has happened.

As it is, he just feels alone. John's sitting right beside him, he could reach out and touch him, and he feels alone.

"Right, then." John breaks into his thoughts; draws him back into the present like a tug at a leash. Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes focusing back on the man he once called friend. "Of course it was, of course it was an experiment. Because it's perfectly normal to shoot yourself through the hand for _science_."

John almost hurls the word like it's a tangible object, and Sherlock realizes that he feels it, too. John feels it, the de-fragmentation of the past.

 _John. Don't. Don't go. Please._

 

"John--" he starts; holds out the hand with the hole in it, reaching. John stares at it, stares through Sherlock's palm as Sherlock goes on. "John, I didn't--"

"It's like stigmata."

Sherlock goes silent. "Sorry?"

The look John levels at him is dangerously blank; unreadable, and he hates it. He's never had to struggle to read John more than he is right now.

"Stigmata," John goes on, voice flat as he recites. "In religion, they're thought to symbolize the crucifixion of Jesus Christ." He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to the raw, burnt skin at the edges of the wound. Sherlock twitches at the contact, but holds his hand steady. "People who claimed to have stigmata said they'd developed holes in the centers of their palms, a mimicry of the wounds Jesus carried, made by the nails hammered through his hands, holding him to the cross. Claimed it was a sign of being touched by the Holy Spirit or something."

Sherlock looks at John sharply. "I know what stigmata is, John." His head tilts, eyes considering. "You hardly strike me as a religious man, Doctor Watson." The title rolls off his tongue without warning; sounds cold and unemotional.

 _John, I didn't mean it. John. John, don't._

John's head jerks up, and the vague look on his face fades, replaced with tense crow's feet at the corners of his eyes; lines bracketing the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not." He states. "It just reminded me of--you know what, never mind." He stands; brushes his hands on his legs. "I'll find someone to take care of your hand."

Sherlock sits up, panic slipping through his chest, face hardly shifting. "But aren't you going to--"

"No." John cuts him off; swings about slowly and looks at the detective. "No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm done; was done three years ago, and I would say I'm sorry, but," he hesitates, tongue flicking out and tracing over his bottom lip, before he shakes his head. "But I won't. I can't. Or, I just--" he shakes his head again; lifts and drops his shoulders in a vague attempt at a shrug. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't off and die again, y'know?"

John Watson turns; walks out of the room, from his life, and closes the door.


End file.
